Still Heart
by Calico45
Summary: It was their greed that extinguished his light. Now they have to extinguish his shadow, too. He deserves the peace they will never have. (Not sure exactly what I am doing with this. It may stay a one shot or I may continue it.)


Still Heart

It had been nearly a week since that dreadful day where darkness cloaked the earth instead of the people. Normally funerals were held much quicker, one should note, but there had been some problems with the body. In the end, it was decided that the viewing would have to be closed casket, despite numerous objections. After all, how could someone so young and beautiful in life, be repulsing in death? In all honesty, you could ask anyone in the room and the answer would have been unanimous, but that was not the issue. No, most of the attending mass had no clue what was the cause of the sudden death of Alfred F. Jones, a mere teenager that had all of his life ahead of him. Sure, they thought they knew. The official report said it was a heart attack. From there, people speculated. Some say he was born with a defect, others that he got caught up in drugs, and others, still, say that Heaven was simply calling one of their most vibrant lights home. None of these people even had an inkling of the truth, except for three very solemn men at that practically haunted the church as the funeral proceeded. None of this was seen as odd, however, because it was a funeral and the family is always the hardest hit. Arthur Kirkland, Alfred's adoptive father, Matthew Williams, his older twin brother, and Francis Bonnefey, an uncle of sorts, were supposed to look like death incarnate, worse than the child called away to heaven, because he had peace and they did not. Or at least he was supposed to. You see, due to the nature of his death, these three were not so sure. They knew their souls would probably never have peace, but knowing that he may not was a sobering reminder at just how cruel the world could be.

That is why the older two of the trio stayed at the church that night, long after the casket had been covered with earth. These two were no strangers to the cruelty of the world, but even they found themselves at an all-time low. They could not even imagine what Matthew was going through. Still, it was generally accepted that one was suffering more than the other even if they were both in agony. The child was never supposed to die before the parent. It was actually almost funny. Arthur Kirkland had never fancied himself to be the fatherly type, and he had not been. In fact, the only person he thought could have been a worse father would have been Francis Bonnefey. He supposed that was why the two had found the twins that night long ago. It really is funny how the world works that way. Two men that were never supposed to be fathers found twin orphans and tried everything to find them proper homes, only to have to take care of them themselves. They did their absolute best, anyone could tell, but they were certainly not perfect. What truly mattered, though, is that they cared, and they did. They loved and cherished those two boys more than anything else. That was why they tried, _desperately_, to keep the secret, to hide the darkness. However, with two growing and curious teenagers it had all been for naught. They were caught and the world changed on that day. Naturally, the elder two had their reservations, but as time passed they grew glad they were exposed. They were glad their precious children were willing to cloak themselves in the same darkness to be with them. That is probably where they started to take it for granted—and lost it all.

So that is why they waited, by the still grave as the moon rose ever higher. They were no longer glad. Regretful and guilty, instead, for it was their greed that had allowed the loss of the child's life. Now they had to await their punishment for that sin. They truly hoped in their heart of hearts that said punishment would never come, that they were being paranoid, and the boy they loved so much would be allowed the peace he so deserved. But there was a _chance_. Even if it was a microscopic sliver of a possibility that lived, then the two had to be there that night. They had to be ready to take responsibility for their mistakes the only way they knew how: give the restless boy eternal peace by freeing him from the darkness that once cloaked him and now consumed him. He should have never been allowed to touch the darkness. The brighter the light, the darker the shadows cast. These two sides were separated by a thin, but distinct line, and they had allowed the light to cross the line into their side of shadows. And now he was extinguished, choked into utter black, because of their desires. Now they had to save the only remaining, dimming light of the other boy. That was why he could not be there, never could he share in _their _just punishment. They had to set the extinguished light free from the shadows.

"It is getting late. He probably won't rise."

"But we do not know that, Frog."

The Frenchman sighed. He knew he might as well have been talking to the surrounding tombstones, and, in a way, he was. He was saying something to merely do so. It had been silent all day and as tactful and respectful as he was, he could not take much more. He would not dare leave the graveyard until sunrise and they both knew it, but it was still a little comforting to have their usual banter.

"I told Matthew to try and sleep, but I bet he will be waiting for me." he continued, "Do you want to come home with me? I am sure you do not want to stay in that lonely house by yourself, and Matthew will be happy to see you."

"No, Frog, I want to go home after this."

The Brit was going through the motions even if he lacked his usual bite, but Francis could not find it within himself to mention it. As much fun as Arthur was to tease, he seemed but a shell of his former self at the moment. Not that Francis was surprised in the least. The man's heart had been buried in that casket and no one survived losing their heart. It destroyed even unmentionable beasts, so what then of a mere mortal? Francis supposed that he could have been the one that found out first hand, or still could one day, though he would do all he could not to. Another light would not be extinguished on his watch.

"Visit Matthew for a moment, at least. It would do you both some good."

Arthur snorted at this, "The only thing that will do me some good is rum."

"You mean alcohol poisoning."

"I do."

"Arthur—"

"I am already dead, what does it matter!?"

Arthur still had not turned away from the grave he had been staring at their entire wait. He had the engraving imprinted in his mind. Francis stood behind him, searching his back for answers he would not get. This could have been him.

"It matters," Francis began tentatively, "Because you are not dead. Alfred is dead, mon cher, you are not."

He watched the tensions grow in Arthur's shoulders as the Brit's shoulders began to tremble, "But I died with him. And don't you dare say otherwise, because if it had been Matthew it would have been you here!"

"True." Francis admitted, "But while your heart died, the rest of you is still alive. You are undead like this, Arthur. At least _try _to live, to stay to one side."

"To not fall into the darkness?" Arthur sneered, finally turning to face the Frenchman.

A solemn nod was his response and Arthur shook his head at it, "Frog, we are darkness. We cannot be anymore infected than we already are. We are the same as those _things_."

Francis's eyes narrowed, "We are _very _different, Arthur. We only cloak ourselves in darkness. We dirty our hands so others do not have to. Darkness is fought with darkness. Shadows or not, we can wash the black off at the end of the day. They cannot."

"Different? We walk the streets just as they do. We hunt just as they do. We _kill_ just as they do. We extinguish light just like them. We are darkness, we are the same."

"_We_ are not—"

"Then why are we being punished like this!?" he cried, "Then why do I have to kill the only thing I have ever loved!?"

Silence descended upon the two.

"Because we got greedy."

Arthur shook his head, "It should have been me. If I was so greedy he should not have had to pay for it. It is not fair. And now…"

Francis took the first steps toward Arthur he had the entire day. He had been trying to give the notoriously volatile man a lot of space, everyone had, but it now seemed as though it were crushing him.

"I will do it, if you cannot."

"No!" Arthur snarled, "I have to. If Alfred is stuck here it is my fault. I have to be the one to set him free."

A wry smile broke across Francis's lips, "Then stay strong. We only have a couple more hours before it is over. He is probably in Heaven by now."

"I really hope so, Frog."

They both did. They had the sincerest hopes that they would not have to stare their greed in the face up until the birds started chirping.

"The sun will be coming up soon."

Arthur did not even fidget, "We cannot leave until there is sunshine on his grave."

"I know, but it is late enough that he will not rise. Go on home, or, better yet, to mine. I will stay, just in case."

Arthur immediately protested, "I have been here this long, so why leave now?"

"Because you will have it the worst the moment you go home. Might as well stop putting it off."

This caused the Brit to pause a moment, "I just want to stay with him a little while longer."

"You would never leave." Francis insisted, "Now go, see Matthew."

Arthur was clearly hesitant, but as he started to see the first rays of sun break over the horizon, he nodded. Francis smiled and looped an arm around the Brit's back to guide him to his car.

_Scratch_.

They froze in place.

_Scratch_._ Scratch_. _Scratch_.

Francis's grip on the Brit tightened.

_Scratch_,_ scratch_,_ scratch_,_ SCRATCH_,_ SCRATCH_!

"F-frog—"

"Just go!"

Francis pushed Arthur with all of his might towards their cars and whipped around to confront the noises—and there he stood, vibrant as the day he died, garbed in that accursed bomber jacket that no one had a clue how he got and they all tried so hard to get rid of. He loved it, though, and it only seemed right to finally let him have it in death. He was not even pale, still the same sun kissed tan, even the dirt could not mar him.

"A-Alfred… Francis, I—I can't do it!"

"Arthur, just go home!"

The boy—no, monster—that stood before them croaked and wheezed, as if trying to speak.

"I-I—"

"Please, Arthur. Let me do this."

Arthur's eyes went wide for a split second before he closed them as tightly as he could. And nodded.

_CRACK_!


End file.
